Tallon Fassi

I keep my addictions close.

 Huddle them to my skin, press them tightly in.

 A vice unseen is not a vice at all. However,

  Let them wander, people will stare.  

 Smell my hair, check my skin, run hands down my legs.

 this is not for me.

  Diverging I have become a master

 of deception you see.  

 Paint eyes wide and smile and ply

 myself with distraction.

 Keep a mean game face,

Makeup for pain with a fast pace.

  But betwixt us, I’m just waiting for

 some chemistry of substance.

 I’ll take rosy colored bong hits.

  Most days delegate bullshit and breathe. 

 Use logic like a long stick, to fight of the nitwits.

 Okay probably more shotgun spliffs. 

Regardless, I’m priceless and

suffice it to say, I’ve had some

 man eating ways, that I used to play,

to keep boredom at bay.  My Genesis,

 an epic battle royal,

 on purgatories burning fire, amongst the funeral pyres.

  Give way to all that can be lost,

like the natives we “found”.

Don’t give blankets or rain checks and

Do suspect, everyone, who’s not… right

And by right I mean white, and I gave some

Crackers a fright, by speaking up for what is

Logical and methodical and periodically insane,

In my membrane, I retain the pain of the parting

Bodies.  Divergences to distant planes of

Reality, banality breeds multiple verses, and

Love cruises all who pray at the alter of lust,

And I’m speaking through a layer of distrust

 and holding the baggage of past kids. 

Delegation is an act of God, its not odd to

Want time for prognosis, and take my

Prescription in small does. 

If I keep my addictions close,

 why are you slipping from me like smoke?

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The cultured few cordially invite you

To their fairytale ball.

With gossamer wings of lace and strings

They will beguile, disarm you with smiles

Sip the cup as you chit and chat

Like a Cheshire Cat until they

Work you through

Left so weak you’ll lose your feet

Falling into the center of the room

They are what to be

True blue bourgeois

A different breed from you and me

They will laugh as you go,

and be blessed to know

you put on an entertaining show.

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Word wielding love warrior

Blue moon baby

Crafted in the morning when

God was funky fresh

Voodoo practicing, witch craft

Manufacturing, cinders at the stake.

Pish talk champion three years running

And under consideration to be a saint

Like Cupid or Marley

I’m love stoned and what a delicious fate.

Diamond farmer, snake charmer

The harp fiddler of Douglas Place

Light me up while I’m training

Soul shakedown, superwomen aiming

Classy lunar lidded, transcendental wanna be.

Dirty lopsided classic

Loyal kite flyer supreme

Sunny side walking, pimp talking

Grapefruit tasting extraordinaire

Green eyed flashing, passion mashing

Over indulgent yet cliché thrashing

Tea leaf reading, love seeding

Seriously intrinsic Leo bleeding.

SEEKS:

Stage debater, plan hatcher

Hypocrisy hating with swagger stature

Rhyme sculpture with gentlemen

Genetics obscene or a mischief fisticuff king.

TO:

Move to my island, which must have;

Warm turgid sapphire seas

Music brought by the breeze

Mango groves, Cabet coves

Hammocks, decks and marijuana trees.

No clocks (I’m fighting the tick-tock disease)

If Interested:

Please, contact Tallon

At The Hippie Hideaway

I’ll be kissing Angelina’s lips

Shotgun hits which evolve

Fiery brazen quips.

I’ll turn the lights down low,

Sizzle embers golden

And wait…

To get up and go.

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Life is not as tragic we make it out to be.  Panicking for fun has become my generation’s national sport far over taking competitive dodge ball and cage fighting.  Why is it that we are so tense? Is it because we are all herded together in one narrow vein of living to succeeding or a happiness robbed death?  No!  That would be absurd we are a highly educated and well established country that blah blah blah.  Listen I don’t know a lot but what I do know is that I really don’t know much at all.  A side effect of this is that I want to experience as much as I can.  So hopefully to inspired anyone with the feeling of suffocation in one’s own life and see that the world is not the pen western culture’s MTV has sold us, but possibly more or less.  Vinyl is the wave of the future, culture is not dead.  These are my stories I write them high so take from them what you will or not.  I can’t predict the future but I’m right an awful lot.  I’m just saying find your own ways of doing things or at least challenge some of them.  These might just be a year of tall tales of they might even be the truth either way, they are mine and I am giving them to you.  Banksky’s had a dream and so do I.  Monkeys and dead men tell no lies.

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For me it came down to one question.  In my life did I want to be simply and admirer of style or an architect?  And there was my problem, it takes money to do anything worth doing. I have been told that I am a throw back, to what I’m not entirely sure.  If I was to state my opinion about how to reach the paramount of “success”, I could tell you nothing.  I live in Hippie Hide Away with my mother, a dog, and two cats.  I can however tell you how I would want to become famous.  By through some acknowledgement to old blue eyes, I want to do it my way.  I want to eat up some doubt and spit it out.  I want to throw down in fisticuffs with doubts.  In my own mind I draw a very clear line between doubt and insanity.  How does this jump occur?  Well it bounces off of my belief.  The sound conviction that you have to be crazy to succeed.  Not all encompassing, lithium drip padded room.  No! Delightful madness, of the order of Hunter and Kerouac, a little outside the box thinking like my man, George Orwell.  A bit of insanity is needed to be remembered by western world.  I believe when it is effective they “upgrade” you to eccentric, and then here will be many accolades to follow.  Morals, motive and plot be damned, full speed ahead.

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If you could get “High” with any three people, any time in history as we understand it, who would it be?

(PLEASE POST I WILL ADD YOU ANSWERS)

Some who have already answered and discussed:

Summer:

Jimmy Hendrix – Acid

Bob Marley – Weed

Her father – Weed

Eric – “the weed dealing next door neighbor”

Elliot Smith – Herion

His ex-girlfriend – Weed

The Beginning of the Universe ( as we understand it in terms of the “Big Bang”)- on shrooms.

Crystal:

Her HighSchool Crush – On E

Malcolm x – Saliva

A younger version of herself – Weed

 Danni:

Cleopatra – Shrooms

A Dead Bristish Soilder from the American Revolutionary War – Shrooms

Thomas Edision – While he was inventing the light bulb, to see what pops up.  -Shrooms

Tallon

Salivdor Dahi – Acid

Hunter S Thompson – 3 Cables of Columbian Coke

Bob Marley – Weed

Jake:

Einstein – Pipe Tobacco ( as not to fuck with his head)

Steven King- Weed

Hunter S Thompson – Coke

Theo

Richard Finemen? – Weed

Hemmingway – liquior

Frueid – Coke

Jim:

Bob Dylan – (any drug)

Einstein – (any drug)

Hitler – Coke

Courtney – David Chapelle – Newports

Casey – (While eating Breakfast)

Lu Reed – Herion

Bob Marely – Weed

Make and Smoke Pure THC with Einstein

Andrew:

Hemmingway – Whiskey

Hendrix – Acid

Bradely Nole – Herion

My mom:

Margret Meed – Coffee

Paul McCartney – Wine

Harret Beeter Stow – Tea

My dad:

Robin Williams – Speed

John Lennon – Weed

Lincoln – Whiskey Neat

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And I’ll be there whenever light

won’t touch your skin.

Every assumption that my

 silence meant I had no heart for you

Is as permenat as smoke in the breeze.

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I’m sitting in my room in the hippie hideaway and watching the golden globe drop below the pine tree branches that blanch through my mind erasing the fissures of time and space and I wish Hunter left someone his mace. To make a world full of grace and good taste and more dresses made from lace. I have books I’ve written in my head, unpublished lines that have already decayed. I wish I could hold a note and a stare when I’m in raged. Disjointed, and dodgy are critic’s take, well “suck it sideways.” You fucking fakes. You’re a philosopher with out an ethos, so What’s Your Story Morning Glory? My feet are cold, since my heart recently stopped pumping blood from its chambers. My emotions shape interpretations of the Nation, I’m a Hallmark Haitian. Tsunami love victim. Suicide? Of the “cultural” kind.

I’m a Word Wielding Love Warrior of epic ideal. Green is in this year. Two used to be here. That is utterly beside the point. I’m really here to discuss the Hippie Hideaway not wax poetic.

I would mainly say that my street has a distinctively New England beat. With antique houses all wavy glass, built when America History wasn’t even a class. We have a few restaurants that all serve beer, don’t worry if you’re under 21 still in the clear. My problem is that old isn’t anything new can understands. So we look with misinterpretations and feel agitations.

I have extension cords running like veins on the smooth wooded skin of my room. Life is glowing. The keyboard constantly ticking away the time I have and the money I don’t, probably won’t. To be honest, if I could, I would construct a moat and fill is with some ocean, to avoid the inevitable commotions. Between two palm trees is where you would persistently find me, with an IV of Chia iced tea.

I’m not a hippie, words can’t encapsulate.

Labels on artist as I slip on Starbucks.

At the bookstores I generally want more than what I see,

but oh silly me,

no one is ever really free.

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I think it must be my perspective. 

 I feel about as common as a drugstore novel. 

Mass produced under government standards.

  I need that deviation form the norm to give me an inside edge. 

 Bob was right.

 The road less traveled would make all the difference.

  So how do I get off the highway, if I’m going way to fast? 

 Abstract abstractions fill my mind. 

 I feel Mary Jane

  She works my brain ,

straightens the curved in thousands of waves.

  I can’t regret a single session, no need for intervention.

  I’m not a mind addled youth, I’m grade A. 

There’s not a cop who would question me. 

 White is really the place to be, if you want to roll so free. 

 I invited my friends over to West Palmdale

 but only half of them could go. 

 I think it has something to do with the dough flow that gets lost in the lingo of race

I’m sorry linguistics, to be specific and (no place for modesty) terrific.

  So my structure doesn’t lend itself to mass appeal,

 but keeping to all I understand to be real. 

 Zealots in the 2-4’s parking lot,

when I drive the block for a blunt to smolder down to the top. 

I’m terrified of pot shots, critical melodrama, and subplots. 

 And No, I don’t think this is all that,

 I have higher intensions brewing in the vat. 

My mind comes and goes with Hurricane speeds,

 spreading disease with the pencil pushing fleas.

   Dissecting bitches into slabs,

 respecting ladies and lades

 when I press my paper to my pen. 

 The blood I pump is laced with adrenaline,

of the uncertain persuasion.

  God damn!

 look at all those Asians.    

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